


You and I Shine

by heartstrings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Awesome Friends and Family, Comedy, Friendship/Love, M/M, POV Alternating, Pining, Pop Culture, Romance, Sarcasm, awkward first meetings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Derek is a hapless, unemployed architect living in his sister’s basement and Stiles is the gorgeous grocery store clerk who helps him figure out his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically what I imagine it would be like if the Teen Wolf cast was in an indie romantic comedy. Maybe? I apologize about the lack of werewolves. I wanted to explore a world where Derek and Stiles could form a relationship without most of the trauma and pressures that their characters are faced with in canon TW. Hope you enjoy!

_Well I'd like to think I'm the mess you'd wear with pride._  
-Band of Horses

 

_June_

  


Derek Hale hates his life.

No. Wait.

Correction: _Derek Hale really fucking hates his life_.

He didn't always feel this way. When he was eighteen, getting ready to go off to school for the first time, young and in love and ready to concur the world with the strength of a thousand men, he'd been excited. When he was ten and small, filled with wonder and curiosity while he played in his backyard with Laura, he’d been so eager to explore everything. When he was twenty-two and graduating from college, he’d been alone, but prepared to take on his responsibilities. He’d been anxious that he would stumble, but so assured he’d never fail. He’d been stupid.

When he was fifteen and packing up his room to move to his grandparent’s home, he’d been scared, so scared that he’d never feel right again, that nothing would ever be good or happy or whole. His parents were gone and he was left to help his sister pick up the pieces of their shattered life. He told himself then, at that moment, that he’d never let himself get to a place where he had to suffer the kind of pain and heartache they were drowning in ever again. So he prepared himself. He worked his ass off in school to get good grades and at his after school part-time job to save money for college. He became wholly focused; never let himself be distracted from his goal.

When he was twelve and he first started to construct houses, buildings, skyscrapers in his dreams he would draw crude sketches of his ideas onto Post-it notes and napkins. He would find pieces of junk around his home and he would create miniatures of them on his own. He would show them to his parents and they would smile and clap and tell him what an amazing architect he was going to be one day. And Derek believed them. So he’d prepared.

He never prepared himself for the day when it all fell apart.

 

***

  


He’s in baggage claim at Van Nuys, waiting for the conveyor belt to bring his luggage around when Laura shows up. It’s the middle of the night because that’s the cheapest ticket he could afford and he’s exhausted. There’s a thin sheen of sweat sticking to the back of his neck, his clothes clinging to him uncomfortably.

Laura runs up and squeezes him around the waist, pulling back with a wince once she gets a whiff of the airplane funk that’s emanating off of him.

“You need a shower,” she says, by way of greeting. 

Derek grunts and steps forward to grab one of his suitcases from the conveyor belt.

“That’s completely new information. Thank you for telling me,” he says.

She rolls her eyes at him, as is her way, and smiles fondly. “I missed you, asshole.”

“Yeah, me too.”

And it’s true, he has missed his sister. They’ve been close their whole lives, practically inseparable when they were kids. Even when they would get into screaming matches that ended with a chunk of Derek’s hair ripped out or rug burn on the side of Laura’s face they never wanted to be apart for long. It may have been his decision to move to Chicago to further his career – what a joke – but he hadn’t enjoyed being away from her.

His feelings about Beacon Hills however…

“God, could your bags be any heavier?” Laura whines, lifting his other, larger suitcase onto the ground with a strained ‘oof’. 

Derek reaches out to help her, but she slaps his hand away meanly. He smacks her back.

“This is my entire life, Laura. Yes, it’s heavy.” He says tightly and takes off for the parking garage at a swift stride.

He’s tired and he badly wants to leave the airport. Now.

Laura lets him walk ahead of her for several long moments before sidling up next to him, contrite.

“I’m sorry. I know things suck right now. What can I do?”

“Letting me stay with you so I’m not homeless on the streets of Chicago is adequate. I guess,” he sighs.

“ _You guess_ ,” she teases. “Optimistic as usual.”

Derek snorts. “Optimism is just another way to define dumb. I know better.”

Laura groans loudly and mimes as if she’s going to reach out and strangle him. His pessimism has always grated against her nerves. He’s not sure why.  
  
Most of the time when he’s with her he does it just to get a rise out of her, but today he can’t even enjoy her frustration. Today sucks and so did yesterday, as will tomorrow. Thus and therefore hereafter or whatever-the-fuck, amen.

“You know what I love about you, little brother? How you manage to always appear so unaffected in the face of utter ruin. It’s a talent so few have, you know?”

“Shut up. I was evicted by my stupid hipster roommate so he could move in with his stupid hipster girlfriend; I lost my job to the asshole I’ve been competing with since day one of being at the firm and my fish died. On the same day, Laura. _On the same fucking day_. My existence is an endless pit of despair. I’m allowed to be cynical.”

“You don’t have a fish.”

“It's a metaphorical fish, Laura. I am the fish. The fish is me. Therefore I am metaphorically dead, on the inside. That’s how much my life sucks.”

“I’m aching for you, really I am,” she deadpans. “Now can you help me carry these please?”

“Here just switch me. Where’s the car anyway?”

“My car’s over there, the red Toyota.”

Derek looks to where she’s pointing at the dilapidated rust bucket of a deathtrap that’s going to take them onto the freeway in a few minutes. “Why the hell are you driving this piece of shit?”

She laughs at what must be the look of horrified disgust on his face.

“Because when my other piece of shit car broke down this was all I could afford.”

“What about the money I sent you, you know, when I still had money?”

“I used it for things, like, food. And paying my electric bill. And I saved some of it,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Derek refuses to get into another debate with her about money. They always escalate quickly and then turn ugly. She thinks he spends his money on things he doesn’t need and is frugal about other things that are more important. He thinks the same of her, so on and so forth. It’s a no-win situation.

Maybe she’s right, though. He is currently living on practically nothing and about to mooch off of her kindness. So he’ll let it go this time and hope that they make it to her place in one piece. Please god.

“Can you hand me my iPod, it’s in the glove compartment. We need road music.” Laura says as they’re leaving the airport and merging onto I-90.

A car honks and swerves around them as Laura moves to reach for her iPod herself.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

“I got it, gramps. Chill.”

Derek glares at her. He fucking loathes California traffic. 

She ignores his baleful stare in favor of plugging in the adapter and scrolling until she finds the song she wants. 

It’s fucking John Mayer. Stab him in the ears.

“ _It might be a quarter life crisis or just the stirring in my sooooul_ ,” she sings at him, cackling and turning the volume up. “ _Either way, I wonder sometimes about the outcome of a still verdictless liiii-eeee-iiii-fe.”_

Derek briefly considers flinging himself outside the passenger side door. He bends over in his seat and rubs his hands over his face instead.

“C’mon dude! It’s funny. Laugh.”

She peeks over at him and pulls a few fingers away from where his hands are cradling his face.

“What’re you doing?”

“Hating everything,” he says.

Laura sighs. He’d like to think that was the sound of her waving the white flag of surrender, but he knows her too well. 

“Just wait ‘til you see what I did with your room. It’ll make you feel a hundred times better.”

Derek groans.

 

***

 

“You turned my room into a gym?”

“We didn’t think you’d be coming back,” Laura hedges. “Not for an extended period anyway.”

There’s a bench press and some hand weights in the middle of the room. The walls are stripped bare of Derek’s high school movie posters, his antique oak bookshelves with his science fiction novels and his comic books are gone. An elliptical machine sits huge and clunky where his bed once lived and a stupid purple fitness ball hangs out by the doorway where he’s standing. So he kicks it. Hard.

Laura gives him that look she reserves for the times when she thinks he’s been particularly childish.

He’s not. She clearly just doesn’t understand the sanctity of one’s childhood bedroom.

“Where am I gonna sleep?” 

“With Georgie in the basement,” she smiles falsely sweet. “We bought you a soft little doggie bed and everything to go right next to his.”

He glares, pursing his lips. “I will throat punch you.”

“Try it.”

There’s a muffled laugh and then Boyd, Laura’s fiancé, is shouldering his way in between them and giving Derek a quick hug.

“Stop antagonizing your brother, babe,” he says, kissing her softly before wrapping her up in his arms.

They’re sort of perfect together, which is nauseating. For all that Laura appears brash and outspoken with Derek she’s always been more of a thinker than an impulsive speaker. Boyd’s quiet, thoughtful ways were what initially drew them to one another. 

“But it’s so much fun,” she sings. Boyd furrows his brow in her direction and she huffs. “Fine. Fun ruiner. So. Listen. We got you a cot for now. I’ll get the old sofa-bed from storage in a few days. If it’s too uncomfortable there’s always the couch, but I know how you like your privacy.”

Boyd gives him a sympathetic shrug and Derek tries to rein in his fatigue and irritation at this night and at Laura and at his life, but he can feel it eeking out of him regardless.

“I’m not supposed be here. I’m twenty-six. What the fuck am I doing sleeping on a cot in a basement? I’m homeless and unemployed and I’m going to die of asbestos poisoning. Fuck everything,” he says.

“Honey, it’ll be okay,” Laura says, rubbing a hand over his shoulder comfortingly. “You’ll find another job and be back on your feet before you know it.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“If you believe things will work out, then th-”

“No. Don’t even start. I don’t want hear it right now.”

“Derek…”

“NO OK! He snaps, snatching up what he can grab of his luggage. “I’m gonna go unpack.”

“Are you-?”

“It’s fine. Just…I need some time to myself,” he concedes quietly. It’s probably better for his own peace of mind and everyone else’s if he’s not around people right now. He’s jet lagged and he knows he’s being a melodramatic dick, but he just feels so goddamn defeated. To spend so many years on a dream that ultimately slipped through his fingers is a very bitter pill to swallow. And he loves Laura more than anything, but he cannot deal with her self-help positive bullshit right now.

“Let’s let him have some room to breathe, yeah?” Derek hears Boyd say as he starts down the stairs for the basement. Boyd is a smart man. Boyd is his new best friend.

“Dinner’s in the refrigerator whenever you get hungry,” Laura calls from somewhere in the house.

“Thanks.”

He sighs and stares at his new concrete living space despondently. 

Most of his old furniture has been moved down here. There are black curtains covering small slatted windows and some glow in the dark plastic stars stuck to the ceiling in the shape of Ursa Major. He was forced to sell most of his things from Chicago that he couldn’t carry on an airplane, the rest boxed up and on their way in the mail. So this is what he has left: one beat-up, old bookcase, three pieces of luggage, and six boxes of childhood memorabilia. This is what’s left. This is everything.

 _Well fuck_ , he thinks.

 

***

 

_August_

 

According to Laura he proceeds to spend the next two months in a self-induced-slob-ridden-pitiful-red-eyed-junk-food haze. He sleeps and he eats and he plays the Playstation with Boyd in the evenings. He surfs the net for hours on end and he watches a metric fuckton of television. He takes showers sometimes.

Laura thinks he’s starting to smell, though clearly she just doesn’t appreciate his couch musk. It’s sort of an acquired taste, to be sure, but Derek thinks it can’t be all bad. Not if Boyd’s still willing to come and hang out with him. So he ignores Laura’s protests and decides to take a little mental vacation from his life and his debt and the rest of his problems for a while. They’ll be there tomorrow and he can deal with them then. 

This doesn’t exactly stop him from worrying. Nor does it help him deal with the anxiety of not knowing what’s coming next. In fact, the act of continuing to do nothing is making the knots in his stomach twist tighter every day. He’s not sure how to make any of it better. There’s this overwhelming sense of urgency to have everything sorted out, to have all of his problems solved, labeled and neatly filed away to never be dealt with again. As an alternative he tries to compartmentalize. It’s not all that successful.

He thinks about how disappointed his parents would be in him. He thinks about what he wanted his life to be and how he thought his life would be at this point. He thinks about all the plans he’d made. Everything was going so perfectly, until it wasn’t. And there was no backup plan for fucking up. He didn’t count on that being an issue because he wasn’t a quitter. If he failed he just pushed himself up, dusted himself off and tried again until he succeeded. That’s how it worked. That’s how it was always supposed to work.

Derek thinks and thinks and thinks until his head aches with it, until the only conclusion he comes to is that maybe he doesn’t know how anything works at all. 

 

***

 

It’s a Wednesday when Laura decides she’s had enough. She finds him spread out on the couch eating from a bag of Doritos and still wearing the same T-shirt he had on Saturday. He’s got crumbs on his chest and cheesy powder on the tips of his fingers. He’s watching Batman Begins for the third time in a row because he’s too lazy to get up and grab the remote, while he plays Angry Birds single-handed on his phone.

It’s not one of his finer moments.

“You have to get out,” Laura screeches, looking unraveled and stressed out.

It startles Derek from his fugue state and he blinks at her confused. Laura almost never loses her cool and when she does, it usually manifests itself in tears.

“You have to get a job or a hobby or something, Derek. I love you, but you’re driving me up the fucking wall here. You need to do something. Please.”

He doesn’t know what to say. She’s right, and he knows she’s right. He could argue you with her for the sake of being difficult, but it’d only put more of a strain on them both and it’s been a long couple of months. So he lets out a slow breath and says, “Ok.”

Turns out, finding a job in this shithole town isn’t easy. Finding a job he’s actually qualified for is basically impossible. So that leaves him with a handful of options, most of which reside in the local mall, Wal-Mart or Starbucks. 

Clearly all that money he spent on college was worth it. His prospects are looking up.

“You know you can just apply online these days, dude,” says the snotty cashier at Macy’s.

Derek chooses to be the better man in this situation and instead of punching the kid in the neck, he takes his piece of paper and places it on top of his six other applications. He may have just wasted and entire afternoon on what he could’ve essentially done in two hours on his laptop, but he’s not going to focus on that because that would be pointless. Instead he’s going to meticulously fill out all of these applications and then pray to whatever higher power exists that something better comes along soon, very, _very_ soon.

 

***

 

Stiles Stilinski is having the best day.

He remembered, for once, in his prestigious college career not to procrastinate on registering for classes this semester. This is amazing news. Now he has time to do a short morning shift at the library for his work-study, then onto his classes conveniently scheduled as close together as possible, which leaves him time to grab lunch and a practice room for a few hours before he has to be at Joe’s Grocery for the evening.

Stiles would be bummed by the fact that taking all of this on means he won’t have any social life to speak of, but he’s used to it by now. He’s been doing exactly this since he moved into his own apartment junior year and had to make rent. And to be honest, he never had much of a life to begin with besides being the third wheel to the love trials of Scott and Allison. 

So, he’s stoked. Taking eighteen credits every semester is undoubtedly crazy, bordering on psychotic, but since he's double majoring he doesn't have much choice. This schedule, believe it or not, is actually ten million times better than the one he had last year, with every class scheduled at least an hour or more apart which left him no time to work or practice or really even study much. He had had to work basically twelve hour shifts at Joe’s on the weekends to even be able to buy himself milk and toilet paper. His dad had tried to be extra stealthy by slipping checks in his laundry when he’d come to visit, but Stiles hated to take money from his dad, hated feeling like he couldn’t do this on his own, be his own man.

But not this year, this year he’s going to have an awesome schedule with time for work and school and practice, and best of all, time for his friends and maybe something more. With someone that likes him, if that person exists. He hopes this person does, but he hasn’t had a lot of evidence to support this theory so far. He will not let this dissuade him, though. _Can’t nobody hold him down, no no no_.

“The rule was ‘no singing unless the store is empty’, Stilinski.”

Stiles jumps as Lydia comes from around one of the aisles to join him in the front of the store by the cash registers.

“Uh, look around. This place is deserted,” he counters, waving the snickers bar he’s been munching on at her face.

She waves his hand away and reaches over to snag one of the celebrity magazines off the rack. “I’m here,” she says primly and hops up on the conveyor belt to take a seat.

Stiles could debate the point with her, but he doesn’t really have a burning desire to ruin his good mood by fighting with Lydia or continuing to sing Puff Daddy lyrics, for that matter, so he lets it go.

With her ignoring him in favor of reading about Eva Mendez, Stiles begins tapping on the sliver of counter in front of his register.

When he started working at Joe’s in high school he’d gotten bored one day and drawn a miniature keyboard for himself in permanent marker. Because the owner, Joe, was a forgiving man and, once upon a time, a friend of his mother’s he’d never said a single word. Stiles hated pity, but he’d always loved this job and having money so he’d quietly apologized and it was never spoken of again.

The keys have faded over the years, but they’re still here and so is he. 

The idea that a year from now he’s going to have to leave this place behind with all its memories and comforting security and find a real job, sort of scares the shit out of him.

“What’s this?” Lydia asks.

“Something new I’ve been working on. I haven’t decided if I like it yet or not,” he says with a small smile.

He’s always surprised when Lydia shows interest in him outside of friendly mockery and ridicule. It’s the basis of their relationship and has been since, well, pre-school.

She flips a page of her magazine. “Let me hear it.” 

“Thought I wasn’t supposed to sing,” he says, giving her a pointed look.

She glares. “Don’t ruin the one thing I like about you, Stilinski. Just play.”

Stiles laughs, because he loves Lydia, but she can be absolutely impossible sometimes.

He starts from the beginning, repositioning his hands on the keys and humming the notes as he tap, tap, taps on the wooden counter beneath his fingertips. The markings are just barely visible enough for him to pantomime as if he’s playing his own piano at home.

The bell above the front door jingles, signaling a new customer, but he doesn’t acknowledge the sound, too lost in his own little world now of harmony and melody and song.

He opens his eyes when he’s done, unaware that he closed them at all.

“It’s not finished yet.” He sighs, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. 

For a performance major it’s ironic how uncomfortable he gets playing in front of other people, fake piano notwithstanding.

“It’s good,” Lydia replies, never glancing up. “Although your voice leaves a lot to be desired.”

The door chimes again before Stiles can adequately respond to _that_ remark and Lydia promptly hops off the counter.

“Ugh, customers. I’m going back to the break room. Call me if it gets too busy.”

“How did you even get this job,” Stiles mock shouts after her. “You never actually work!”

She smiles coyly and throws the magazine at his face as she disappears. It’s open to an article about Henry Cavill. Stiles can totally get behind shirking his duties to read up on the Hollywood Love of His Life.

A few minutes pass in relative silence until footsteps appear and someone is setting items on the conveyor belt. This always happens whenever he’s right in the middle of reading something interesting. Never fails.

“Hey, how ya doin’?”

“Good. Can I get an application?” 

“Sure. I think I have some around here somewhere.” Stiles says, bending down to grab an application where they’re usually kept in the cubby below the register. He shuffles the few random pieces of paper he finds around, but comes up with nothing. “ Or not. There’s more in the office if you don’t mind waiting a sec.”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Stiles turns and glances up at the guy for the first time. There’s a rush of blood to his brain from standing up too fast, the world dizzy and off kilter, making his head spin. Striking green eyes rimmed with dark lashes stare back at him and he stumbles forward. 

_Holy shit_. Stiles had thought he’d seen attractive guys in his life. Hell, he knows Jackson and Jackson’s basically a walking, talking GQ model. But this guy…this guy is the most gorgeous, albeit irritated looking man he’s ever seen. 

“Are you ok?”

“Sorry?” Stiles asks, because he completely forgot what he was doing. Or where he’s at, for that matter. Or what his name is? Does he have a name? It’s a fairly irrelevant question in the face of all this raw beauty.

“I said, ‘Are you ok?’. You hit your head pretty hard. Just now. When you were standing up.”

“Did I?” Stiles laughs and it’s a little too loud to be considered normal. He’s not so great at this whole talking-to-attractive-people thing. It’s a work in progress. “I didn’t even feel it.”

Green Eyes shifts on his feet awkwardly. “Uh, that’s good. Can I have that application now?”

“Oh, right! Not a problem. One minute. One second,” he says and shoots out of his cashier cubicle to race to the manager’s office a few feet away.

There’s the sound of a woman screeching out an overly enthusiastic hello from behind him. Stiles surreptitiously peers over his shoulder and out the door of the vacant office to observe the conversation.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s you. Wow, it’s been forever. How’re you doing? What are you doing? Last I heard you were living in Chicago. I bet that’s fun!”

“It’s yeah. Something.” Green Eyes shrugs and looks so wildly uncomfortable that Stiles can’t help but be charmed by him.

“You should meet my husband,” Crazy Cakes says, smile unfettered by Green Eyes’ obvious disinterest. “Honey, hurry up!”

“Coming!” A man who Stiles thinks must be her husband says, and whoa, that haircut is seriously unfortunate. “They didn’t have whole wheat so I had to get white.”

Green Eyes looks as if he’s about five seconds away from bolting out the door, groceries be damned. He moves his mouth in such a way that Stiles assumes he’s attempting to smile, but it comes off more like a pained grimace instead.

“Derek this is my husband Clay. I’ve told you about Derek, remember?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh, well, Clay and I got married last fall. Brett and Tim showed up, they asked where you were. I was sort of surprised you didn’t come. My mom said your sister sent the invitation. I’m sure you were busy. Anyway we found out a few months ago we’re expecting – YAYAY! – so excited, you have no idea. My parents are trying to convince us to move back from California by having us visit or whatever, so here we are.”

Green Eyes (or maybe it’s Derek) pulls his cell phone from his pocket. Stiles knows that move well. When cornered in a socially uncomfortable situation the best plan of action is always to fake an innocuous emergency. So before Sexy Face can make a break for it Stiles jumps in and saves the day. Naturally.

“Found it! Here you go,” he says, handing over the application. “Sorry that took so long, I couldn’t find any so I had to make a copy of the original.”

Crazy Cakes sees Green Eyes grab the application and makes a horrified face. 

“…for your friend, obviously!” Stiles quickly adds, but nobody seems to buy this.

Maybe Stiles isn’t so much saving the day as he is making it worse. He watches Derek tense.

“That’ll be $12.53,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek nods and opens his wallet. Neither of them look at Crazy Cakes as Derek scans his card and Stiles bags his items.

“Debit or credit?”

“Debit,” he replies, punching in his pin and then grabbing his bags quickly. He’s already starting to inch away and the receipt hasn’t even printed out yet. “That’s great news, Marcy. Congratulations on – everything. It was nice to see you and meet you.”

“You… too?” Bad Haircut says, but he sounds dubious at best. His wife’s expression is a mix between sour and apathetic - no wonder Derek doesn’t want to talk to these tools.

Stiles hands him his receipt, smiling as warmly as possibly in silent apology.

“Thanks.” Derek says, staring right at Stiles for one long moment, really meeting his eyes for the first time and looking like he’s been completely caught off guard. Stiles smile widens.

Crazy Cakes breaks the moment by clearing her throat and Stiles blinks. When his vision clears Green Eyes is half way out the door and his debit card, which plainly reads: _Derek Hale_ , is sitting on the counter by the card reader.

“I’ll be right back. I just have to,” Stiles holds up the card for Mr. and Mrs. Crazy Hair to see and then takes off.

He tells himself he’s not running after this guy because he’s beautiful and gracelessly endearing. It’s his civic duty to return lost or stolen property. His father’s the sheriff. He’d want him to return the card. It’s the right thing to do.

“Sir! Er- Mr. Hale!”

“Huh?” Derek says, turning in the parking lot and looking miserable.

Stiles waves the card in the air. “You forgot this.”

“Oh, thank you,” he says, relieved. And it’s a much better expression on him than the others he’s seen so far.

Stiles grins at him again, he can’t help it. “No problem.”

Derek’s mouth quirks up at the edges so infinitesimally that Stiles can almost believe he’s imagining it, but, no, it’s real. The smallest little up-turn at the corners of lips. “See ya.”

“Later,” Stiles breathes and walks backwards toward the store while he watches Derek leave.

His heart’s beating so fast it hurts.

 

***

 

_September_

 

Stiles is stocking the canned food aisle when the front door jingles. As he’s done more times than he cares to count over the last month he glances up to see who's just walked in.

“You’re pathetic,” Lydia says. She’s filing her nails and, well, Stiles isn’t sure what else she’s doing. She never really does anything at work, but she always manages to look busy.

“That was uncalled for,” Stiles says affronted. 

“False. You’ve been staring longingly at the door every time someone new comes in since the beginning of your shift six hours ago. That’s approximately 153 times just today. I’d say calling you ‘pathetic’ is being nice at this point.”

Her words are sharp and direct, which is the very definition of Lydia. Stiles isn’t really in the mood, though, for her particular brand of teasing.

“Are you jealous, honeybear?” He coos, just to see the way her lips twist into an unpleasant pout.

She scoffs. “Jealousy is a made up emotion that insecure people use to excuse their own fear and resentment. I have no use for those things, thank you very much.”

Stiles chooses to ignore that comment. “Can I help you with something or are you just bored?”

“Yes,” she sighs and gently places herself on his half full pallet of boxed cans. “Entertain me. Tell me about this hot mystery customer you’ve been mooning over.”

“What? Who? No. There’s no hot customer,” he lies.

Lydia laughs, the sound melodic and bright. “Oh, please. I know you, Stilinski. Someone’s on your radar. Tell me who.”

Stiles will admit, to himself at least, that he’s been hoping Derek (with his super fucking sexy face and gorgeous green eyes) would show up again. If he has, however, it’s not happened while Stiles was working. He’s convinced this is because the world is a cruel and lonely place and he’ll probably die alone. That doesn’t mean he wants to share any of this information with Lydia.

“It’s no one. Just a friend that said he was coming into town this month. I told him to stop by here if I was working when he got into town.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Stiles nods. It’s true so there’s really reason to deny it. He goes back to mindlessly stocking.

Lydia waits for some sign of a response and when it doesn’t come she rolls her eyes with a huff, but says nothing further. This usually means she doesn’t care enough to continue with her interrogation so he’ll take it as a win.

He lets himself zone out for a bit as he works, thinking about his new classes and milling over what concerto he’ll choose for his senior recital in the spring. His stomach starts to rumble and he quickly diverges from thoughts of school to what he’ll have for lunch to what he’ll make for his dad for dinner on Sunday, something with spinach probably.

Underneath all of those surface thoughts he’s thinking about Derek. Stiles knows he shouldn’t be thinking about Derek, but Stiles can’t help thinking about Derek and his insane attraction to this guy who he’s only seen once and barely talked to for more than a minute. He can’t get him out of his head. It’s crazy. It’s ridiculous. Stiles has the absolute worst track record when it comes to relationships, especially people so painfully out of his league. He needs to put this fantasy guy away in the deepest, darkest parts of his mind and forget about him forever. That’s the only way to happiness. So the fact that he can’t and that he is attracted to this guy so strongly and knows absolutely nothing about him is kind of freaking Stiles out.

“Oh shit,” Lydia hisses.

Stiles startles at her tone, shaking himself from his idiotic thoughts.

“What?”

“He’s here again.”

Stiles spins around to follow Lydia’s gaze and prays in vain that maybe, possibly, it’ll be Derek. 

No such luck.

The person in question is a kid named John Pryce. He’s tall and broad and doesn’t really appear to be much of a kid at all; except for the fact that everyone in town knows he’s the Beacon Hills high school Lacrosse captain. It gets him free food, free booze, free gas, almost anywhere within the city limits. Things have worked this way for as long as Stiles can remember them, it was how Jackson got away with all of the shit he pulled when they were in high school together. He knows that for sure.

John’s seemingly silly criminal shenanigans, however, have elevated over the last year from destruction of private property to public intoxication to just recently petty theft in Joe’s. Stiles’ caught him several times snatching a pack of gum or a candy bar and he never thought much of it. If the kid wanted it bad enough to steal it right in front of him, Stiles figured maybe he was just really hungry.

Lately though, John’s been hiding bottles of alcohol in his clothes, or snatching money from the register when the cashier wasn’t looking. And every time Stiles has caught him and told him to put it back he’s either ran or denied it with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He laughs it off because he knows most of the cops in town won’t touch him since his dad’s the mayor. It’s stupid; it’s so incredibly stupid that Stiles can’t even really believe this idiot kid is actually getting away with this shit.

“Hey John, if I come over there and see beer in your pockets I’m calling the cops,” he yells and doesn’t care who in the store hears.

John sneers at him. “Gonna tattle on me to your daddy? Really? Fuck off, man.”

“Try me,” Stiles says seriously. He draws his cell from his pocket. 

They stare at each other for a strained moment before John smiles, all teeth and no lips, then moves to leave. He flips Stiles the bird as he passes him by. Stiles waves cheerily in smug satisfaction.

“What an asshole.” Lydia says, strong aversion in her tone. 

“Ignore him. Tell me about Allison’s birthday. Are you gonna help Scott plan the party?”

Lydia looks at him like he’s a moron. “Do you mean am I going to plan it for him so it doesn’t end up a complete disaster like the last time he decided on doing a surprise party? If so, then yes ‘I’m going to help Scott’,” she sighs.

Stiles laughs and forces himself not to glance at the front door for the rest of the day.

 

***

 

Later, when he's leaving for the night, the parking lot mostly deserted, Stiles sees the striated key marks all along the doors of his jeep; the ‘Fuck You’ spelled out in large letters across his hood. _Fantastic_ , he thinks.

 

***

 

Saturday mornings for Derek aren't unlike most days of the week for him. With the one small exception that he's allowed to sleep in undisturbed of Laura's blow dryer and Boyd's Clydesdale hooves for feet making the most noise two people could possibly make while they get ready for work.

Saturday's are better. Saturday's mean everyone is sleeping in and so it's blissfully quiet. Until, that is, Laura decides to pester the shit out of him to wake up and go to Wal-Mart with her.

“It's to get you out of the house. You need to be around people for a while, enough sulking on my sofa,” she tells him.

Derek yawns and glares as menacingly as possible, but says nothing. If this gets her off of his back for a few days then so be it. He’ll just try to steer clear of Wal-Mart employees and customers and basically all people. He doesn’t want to be around people. He hates people.

“Here’s your half of the list, don’t forget the paper towels,” Laura says once they’re inside the store. “Oh, and get me some Tampax tampons, the thin kind.”

Derek rubs at his still fuzzy eyes and reaches out a blind hand to take the list from her. He’s not entirely awake and it’s overly bright in this too loud, too busy place.

He reads over the list quickly, head snapping up. “Tampons? Fuck no.” 

Laura looks nonplussed. “I need to drop off this film at the photo lab and it’s all the other way across the store. Your side of the store has that on the list. Just do it.”

“No. Let me say it again: no.”

“If you don’t then I won’t tell you about the new house I’m trying to buy.”

Derek shakes his head. There’s too many things going on this early in the morning for him to be coherent enough to deal with this shit. “You’re what? You’re buying a house? And you didn’t talk to me first?”

“I know this is probably news to you, little brother, but I’m actually a very capable adult with the means and knowledge to be a home owner. Also, it wasn’t just my decision. Boyd and I decided together. It’s what we both want.”

“Where’s it at? What’s the square footage? Have you talked with the realtor about mortgage prices?”

Laura smiles.

“Nope. Tampons first, info second.”

“You’re the devil.”

“I’m amazing,” she chirps. “But I can stand here and argue with you all day if you prefer.”

“Fine. Go.” Derek purses his lips and turns to grab a cart. He refuses to mutter out all of the angry curse words he wants to fling her way. She’s his sister and he loves her. She’s giving him a place to stay and food to eat so he won’t be a complete and utter dick to her like he so desperately wants to right now.

“Yay! You’re the best. Thank you,” she says and walks away.

“I’m gonna cut all your hair off tonight when you’re sleeping,” he lets burst out in an irritated breath.

Laura laughs, happy. “Whatever, creeper.” 

Derek wishes it wasn’t so hard to stay mad at her because he could definitely pull off that prank. Laura sleeps like she’s in a goddamn coma and to see her wake up bald and screaming would be so satisfying.

With that pleasing thought in mind Derek goes forth into the dark depths of Saturday morning grocery shopping.

 

***

 

The last thing on Laura’s list is detergent. She doesn’t specify which kind she wants and there are a million fucking kinds of detergent. So Derek finds himself just sort of standing in the middle of the aisle and dumbly staring at boxes and bags and bottles of Tide trying figure out what the hell she had in her laundry room. _Fuck it_ , he thinks and grabs the gel kind from the shelf. Laura can leave him to sleep in his warm cocoon of contentment and silence if she doesn’t like what he gets. Or she can bring Boyd. He doesn’t care as long as it’s not him next time. 

That decision happily made he takes his cart and trudges his way through the rest of the aisle to sweet, sweet freedom.

On his way back to Laura he sees that guy, the one from the little market down the street. He’s got a backwards baseball cap on his head and he’s meandering forward, looking at nothing much at all until his eyes land directly and squarely on Derek. And he stumbles to a stop for a second, expression going wide and surprised like he didn’t expect to see Derek, but he’s so excited that he has that Derek can’t help but grin back at him.

Then he waves and starts walking over. Oh, shit.

Derek’s not sure why or what to do with himself or what he could possibly say to this stranger he doesn’t know. Derek doesn’t move. Derek’s an idiot. 

“Hi.” The guy says, smile still bright and eyes glittering under the fluorescent lighting.

“Um,” Derek says.

“We, uh, met the other night. At Joe’s? You left your credit card and I returned it to you in the parking lot. You’re Derek, right? I’m Stiles. It’s nice to meet you. Again. Or for the first time, I guess. Or something. But, yeah. Hi!”

“Debit card.” Derek replies dumbly.

“What?” 

The guy’s face morphs from tentatively happy to confused, brow furrowing. 

Derek freezes. Derek freezes because he always freezes when he doesn’t know what to do or say and his brain shuts down on him like the traitorous bitch that it is. He grabs onto the handle bar of the cart and squeezes hard, knuckles going white as the rest of his body is still as stone.

“It was my debit card, not my credit card.”

“Oh!” The guys says, comprehension dawning. His smile returns and it’s a nice smile. It’s a nice face, really. 

So of course Derek says, “I have to go.”

“That’s all you’re getting?” Stiles asks, turning around and falling into step beside Derek.

He nods and refuses to look at Stiles again. God, he's being so awkward. He needs to calm the hell down. They walk silently beside one another for a while until Derek figures out that he has absolutely no idea where Laura’s at and the only way to find out where Laura’s at is to call her, but oh wait, he left his phone in the fucking car. Great.

He sighs and looks at Stiles. It makes him feel both better and worse.

“You’re following me,” he finally states. “Why are you following me?”

Stiles grins playfully like he’s been waiting for Derek to catch onto this fact. “I don’t know. But you seem pretty confused by it and I find that highly entertaining.”

Derek frowns. “You’re very weird.”

“Definitely, dude,” Stiles agrees and taps at Derek’s cart with one finger. “But I don’t have pink Bic razors and tampons in my basket either. Having a heavy flow week, Derek? That’s too bad.”

There’s a short, sharp laugh as two teenage girls pass them, staring at Derek's basket and pointing. This is the most terrible morning. Derek smacks Stiles hand away, disgruntled.

“Rude,” Stiles pouts, rubbing at his wrist.

“Go away.”

“Don’t be that way, dude.”

“Don’t call me, dude.”

“Ok, Derek. I’m sure the tweens still thought you were a dreamboat.”

“God, I hope not,” Derek says.

Stiles’ smile impossibly brightens. _Is this guy for real? Does he ever stop smiling?_ He gestures to Derek’s hoodie, picking up one of the strings and twirling it briefly around his forefinger, then letting it fall away.

“UIC, huh? Where’s that?”

“Chicago.”

“Nice. What’s your major?”

“Bachelor of Science in Architecture. I graduated four years ago.”

Stiles looks thoughtful as he bites at his bottom lip. It’s distracting. 

“Didn’t work out for you then?” Derek can only assume he makes a face at this because Stiles is holding his hands up, brown eyes huge and cheeks slightly flushed. “No offense or anything, I’m just guessing if you were some hot shot architect you probably wouldn’t be coming into Joe’s for a job application.”

This, unfortunately, hits a nerve. Stiles has no way of knowing this, but Derek doesn’t care. He’s talked ad nauseam about his future and his career with Laura and gotten absolutely nowhere. There’s nothing to do until he finds a job. Then he can reevaluate things. Being at rock bottom affords him exactly no room to make anything better and he doesn’t want to tell someone he barely knows any of this very personal information. No. Just no.

“You ask too many questions,” he says in reply.

Stiles grabs his forearm, a seemingly unintentional movement and opens his mouth to respond.

“Stiles!”

They both look up in unison to see a dark haired, deliriously peppy and smiling girl jogging up to them. And seriously, what is with all of the smiling? Is this what people who get up at god awful early hours of the morning do? Walk around smiling like the world is full of puppies and strawberry milkshakes and shit? 

“Allison, hey,” Stiles says. “What’s up?”

“I got the tickets!” She cheers. “It was close, they only had six left when I got there. And I had to fight my way through a group of inebriated asshats, but I got them. Now I just have to make sure I can get off of work so we can…hi.”

In retrospect, that would’ve been a good moment for Derek to have tried to flee the scene. He didn’t, which is clearly more evidence in favor of him being an idiot.

“Hey,” he says stiffly.

Stiles squeezes his arm, his arm that is still being held by Stiles’ hand. “Derek, this is my friend, Allison, Allison this is Derek.”

“Uh, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I didn’t know Stiles had made any new _friends_ ,” Allison says, winking and nudging Stiles with her elbow.

_Jesus Christ._

Stiles flush intensifies, turning into a full on blush. Interesting. “No. No no no no. We just met last week at work and he keeps showing up wherever I’m at.”

“What?” Derek coughs.

Allison ignores him. “Oh, you mean at the library? So you go to CSUN too?”

“At my other job.”

“Oh, at Joe’s?”

“Yep. Derek bought Fritos and asked me for a job application, which you didn’t end up taking, by the way. Did you find something else? I’m assuming you’re unemployed, right? That’s why you asked in the first place.”

“I…am currently between jobs, yes,” he answers flatly.

There’s an awkward pause where Derek is staring forward and no one is speaking. Out the corner of his eye he can see Stiles literally gnawing at his bottom lip. He decides Stiles has stupid lips.

“O-kay. Well, I gotta run. I’ll give you a call next week about the concert stuff,” Allison says. She waves to both of them as she leaves, that same effervescent smile on her face.

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles agrees and starts biting on his thumbnail.

“Good luck with – everything, Derek. It was great meeting you.”

Derek reminds himself to be nice because it’s not Allison’s fault his life sucks. He forces out a tight approximation of a grin. “You too.”

Once she’s out of sight he turns to Stiles, scowling.

“So you’re a dick.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh, his face etched with amusement and contrition. “Sorry. Was that an over-share? Sometimes I open my mouth and shit just comes out. I don’t mean anything bad by it, I swear. And Allison doesn’t care; she’s pretty much the nicest person you’ll ever meet in your entire life. Quote me on that. It’s true. But seriously, what the fuck ever man. So you’re unemployed--”

“ _Between jobs_.”

“Either way. It’s cool. No one around here cares.”

Stiles starts chewing on his bottom lip again and Derek can’t help but stare, and stare hard. He wonders distantly if he’s been starting at Stiles lips the whole time. He seriously contemplates the thought for one long minute and then suddenly realizes he’s leaning closer and, oh Christ, he has to get out of here.

“I’m leaving now,” he says and his voice sounds gravel rough and deep.

Stiles eyes light up, and this time he licks his lips. “Ok. Bye Derek! It was good to see you again. _Really good_.”

“Bye,” Derek barks.

He starts walking and he keeps walking and he doesn’t turn around. He ignores the sweat gathering in his palms and the dryness of his throat. When he gets back to Laura’s place he’s going straight to bed so he can sleep and not dream and forget this horribly inane morning ever happened. 

_Yes_ , he decides. This is a good plan.

 

***

 

A week later Stiles is at Scott and Allison’s apartment watching movies. He’s still grinning like a goober even as he stuffs his face with pizza and cheap beer. 

“Dude, what is up you?” Scott asks once Allison’s gone to the bathroom.

“Nothing, why?”

“You look like the Joker on crack, is all I’m saying. For like months now. I don’t know whether to be worried or worried?”

Stiles cracks up. Scott’s expression is so earnest and his genuine talent for exaggeration is maybe Stiles favorite thing about him.

“No, I’m good. I’m good. I don’t know. I maybe met someone. It’s too early to tell. Just forget I even brought it up. It’s probably nothing.”

Scott looks skeptical. “Well,” he whispers. “You should bring him to the party either way. Actually, speaking of the party…”

And he’s off. 

Stiles listens to him chatter away until Allison rejoins them and they all begin eating again. He thinks of Derek, thinks of that warm little smile and his guarded eyes. He thinks about the way Derek’s gaze flickered to his mouth and then skittered away, the heated strength of his arm beneath Stiles fingertips and how even with all of the uncertainty and hesitation coming off of him in waves he still didn’t pull away first.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_October_

 

Derek and Boyd are driving down a country road at just past dusk. The sky is starting to fill with stars that are actually visible this far away from the city proper. It’s serene and relaxing.

“This isn’t the movies,” Derek says.

Boyd keeps his eyes trained forward. “Very perceptive. I like how you picked up on that right away.”

“What’re we doing then?” 

This time Boyd hesitates, darting a nervous look Derek’s way. “Don’t murder me, ok? Laura already promised me bodily harm if I didn’t get you out of the house for awhile.”

Derek groans.

“Which is why I agreed to go to the movies,” he says, frustrated. 

In the distance he can see that they’re pulling up to the edge of a large house with an equally large barn. There’s a massive bonfire in the center of the yard, people gathered around it. He can barely make out the tinny sounds of music. “Is this a party?”

“She said she wanted to get you out and have you socialize for a bit.”

Derek rubs a rough hand over his face. He would really love it if his sister would stop treating him like he’s a fucking six year old. He knows she means well, but damn. 

“And you listened to her? Why?”

Boyd frowns. “Because I like it when she’s nice to me. And also sex.”

Derek chokes on his own spit. “Never say that again.”

“Sorry.” He looks like he feels awful for dragging Derek into this unknowingly. It’d be funny how pitiful he looks if Derek didn’t want to kick him so hard. 

They’re in front of the house now, parked next to several cars in a grassy area near the road. What looked from afar like several people, up close turns out to be many more. There’s a collection of picnic style tables inside the open barn with food and alcohol set on top of them. In the center of one table is a large cake. This is the most random looking party he’s been too in a long time. 

“You know I could just fight you for the keys and then leave your ass here and go to a bar and drink this whole night away,” he says. But he doesn’t even sound that convincing to his own ears. 

He sighs.

Boyd claps him on the shoulder. “I’m betting on you being a good person and not punching me in the face.”

Derek pushes him off and slips from the car, glaring at the party disdainfully. “You’re on my shit list. Both of you. No Christmas presents.”

“Ever?” 

Derek doesn’t laugh at the hurt eyes. He refuses. “I’m walking away from you now before I smash your balls.”

He can hear Boyd laugh behind him.

 

***

 

Derek doesn’t know anyone so he stays to the edge of the party, meandering around. People are drinking or getting drunk or talking and laughing loudly to one another. They don’t notice him and that’s fine. He’s never really enjoyed huge social events like this, doesn’t much care for small talk or false pretense. He prefers to meet and get to know people on his own terms.

The house he saw before, several yards from the bonfire is no longer dark. A large window in the center is lit up with blue light, like the flickering of a television screen.

Derek thinks about his options. He could stay outside, wandering around like a lost child and thinking about the pathetically sad rejection letter he got today for a job he’s not even sure he really wants to pursue anymore. He could stay out here and wallow. He’s gotten pretty good at it over the last several months. One could say he’s a professional wallower at this point. Or he could leave. Well, technically he can’t leave - because he didn’t drive - because he doesn’t have a car. Things is...he never needed a car in the city so he didn’t bother with ever getting one. It was practical at the time, but now he has to have everyone cart him around like he’s a teenager and it's lame and he's getting off topic. Point being, he needs his own vehicle.

Boyd's disappeared somewhere amongst the crowd, but he sees that his car is still here and he sees the light on in the house. There’s really nothing stopping him from going and checking out if he’s in there and if he’s not he can call a cab and leave. Good plan.

The time on his cell says it’s been a little over an hour since they arrived. That’s a sufficient amount of socializing. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t really talk to anyone. No, _really_ , it doesn’t.

His eyes flick over the crowd again, just to see if he can spot the top of Boyd’s dark head, but no dice. So he takes off for the house.

 

***

 

Stiles feels guilty. It’s Allison’s birthday and he should be out there celebrating with her. Although to be fair she sort of forgot anyone else at the party existed, except for Scott, after her fourth wine cooler. And he can’t believe people actually like wine coolers. Gross. And also gross. Still, he feels guilty for not hanging out and playing comedian for the night like he usually does. It makes her happy and she deserves to be happy today. 

Honestly, it seems to make everyone happy when he jokes around and acts like a giant idiot for their amusement. And he’s loved that attention for years, he likes people liking him, even if he tries not to examine too closely why that is. The older he gets, though, the less fun being the ‘class clown’ at a moment’s notice for other people’s enjoyment becomes. And truthfully his heart’s just not in it tonight. 

The house is a ‘no go’ zone when Scott has more than a few friends over, but Stiles knows he’s always be welcome to come hideout inside if he needs. The ‘just friends’ label vanished between him and Scott at some point in middle school and ever since they’ve always just been an extension of each others families, simple as that, really. So Stiles doesn’t worry about going into the kitchen and grabbing beer and pizza, turning on lights and the TV and making himself perfectly at home.

He’s in the middle of scrolling though Netflix, trying to find a movie he wants to watch when he hears a door near the front of the house open and shut. He figures its Scott or Allison running in to use the bathroom and doesn’t think much of it. But when several minutes pass and he can still hear shuffling footsteps but no shouted greeting, he mutes the TV and sits up.

“Scott?”

And that’s when Derek appears in the doorway. 

“You!” Stiles coughs out a laugh because this is just getting ridiculous.

“Me,” Derek says. He looks intensely uncomfortable.

Stiles feels that warm sensation of endearment spread through him at Derek’s obvious unease.

“So hi. Again.”

Derek huffs a silent laugh, scratches at his jaw. “Hi.” 

“And you’re here. That’s…odd.”

He says it’s odd, but that’s not what he means, not really. Stiles has always been a bit of a romantic, he can’t help it. He spent most of his time during childhood watching his parents be crazy in love with each other. They weren’t perfect by any means. They fought and they made up and they fought again. They compromised with each other constantly and reset boundaries, they apologized for mistakes they made and worked to make their relationship better every day, every minute they were together. They were better together than they were apart. 

Even before he was old enough to recognize the signs of a healthy and happy relationship he knew what he was seeing was right somehow, in the very marrow of his bones, he knew they were meant for each other.

Destiny is the sort of word that gets thrown around and discarded and never taken very seriously. And as a closet romantic Stiles has, himself, applied it and discarded it with many things and people and situations. Sometimes he knew when he was thinking it that it was a silly notion that had no basis in his reality, that it would never come to fruition. And other times, like with his parents and the piano and the first time he met Scott, he just knew, like it was a living thing deep inside his chest that was settling and locking into place, that it was right. 

He’s not sure what it means now, here in this moment, but he can feel it nevertheless as he looks at Derek and a breath shudders through him.

“Sorry. I’ll just--,” Derek starts, looking strangely flustered and awkward.

Stiles bounces in his seat, waving his arms in a criss-cross motion. “No. Stay. Sit. Talk. Tell me how you got here. Tell me _why_ you’re here. I won’t lie, I’m really fucking curious about that one.”

Derek hesitates, seeming unsure. Stiles vows to erase that particular expression from his repertoire very soon if he can help it.

“Well, God hates me and I hate Boyd,” Derek says, sitting down on the edge of the couch, body rigid and folded in on itself.

“That explains nothing, but okay,” Stiles laughs.

Derek sighs. “Would you believe me if I told you he lied and said we were going to a movie and brought me here instead?”

“Hmm. Maybe. So why are you inside when everyone else is outside?”

“I don’t really like parties. It’s not my thing. I’m not…I’m not good with people.”

“No shit,” Stiles says and grins at the sharp glare Derek shoots him. “It’s part of your charm though.”

Derek looks so indignant that Stiles can’t help but reach over and pat his shoulder, feeling the soft cotton and the tight muscle underneath. Derek is heat and warmth personified. Not so much in demeanor but more so in figure and form; a fervency Stiles can’t quite name. He lets his fingers linger maybe a little longer than he should.

“I get it, man. I’m pretty socially awkward most of the time. In fact, if you haven’t seen me do something questionably strange and/or embarrassing yet, that’s just because you haven’t known me long enough. Trust me, it’ll happen.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth seem to reluctantly turn up at the edges. Stiles counts this as win. Yay for loners!

“So if your…Boyd brought you here, do you even know where “here” is?”

“My sister’s fiancé,” he clarifies. “And nope. I thought I heard that this was a party for your girlfriend Amy or Allie or whoever.”

“Ahh, I see. Allison: my best friend’s girlfriend. He wanted to throw her a birthday party, but their apartment’s the size of a hamster cage so they decided to do it here at his nana’s house,” Stiles explains. 

He watches the way the tightness around Derek’s eyes eases a bit when he says _my best friend’s girlfriend_. Or it’s possible that Stiles is just seeing what he wants to see. And that would be that the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on is maybe, possibly, sort of attracted to him. 

With Stiles’ luck, though? He’s probably just cranky. Or still pissed at his sister’s-boyfriend’s-whatever about bringing him here. 

“So,” he says once he’s realized the silence has stretched on a bit longer than is probably comfortable. “You wanna sit back, relax? You don’t have to leave.”

Derek hedges.

“Come on. Take a load off. I’ll go grab us some more beer and junk food and you can pick what we watch. I’m having a little Avengers marathon. Just started _Iron Man_ but you can put on whatever part you want, I’ve seen them all a hundred times.

Derek stares at him for a second, unmoving, his eyes searching Stiles’ face. Whatever he seems to find must be acceptable because he shrugs and says, “What the hell.”

Stiles claps his hands together gleefully and jumps up out of his seat like his legs are attached to springs. _He feels excited_. “Awesome. You pick the movie, I’ll get the food. Ready? Go.”

Derek watches him scurry out of the room with an expression of surprised amusement. He’s clicking on _Thor_ when Stiles comes back with two arms full of food and beverages.

“This mortal form has grown weak. I need sustenance!” Stiles mimics, voice deep and monotone.

Derek reaches up to help him with the plates and bottles. “This drink, I like it. ANOTHER!”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “You make a convincing Thor. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Is it your favorite?”

“It's ok.”

He’s clearly lying and it’s hilarious.

“Whatever. Shut up and watch the movie,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“Bossy,” Derek retorts, but leaves it at that. And twenty minutes later when Stiles sneaks a glance over to see Derek’s plate empty and his beer mostly drained. His eyelid are heavt and there’s a content expression on his face.

They spend the rest of the night like this, drinking all of the good beer Scott squirreled away so no one from the party would get to it and quoting their favorite parts of the movie back and forth to each other. Stiles can’t remember the last time anything felt so easy and fun. No stress to be perfect, no pressure to make some kind of great first impression. If this was a first date he’d say it was the most successful first date he’s ever had, or maybe that anyone has ever had.

But it’s not. A date, that is. It’s just two guys who ended up in the same room at the same time having a fucking awesome evening together. 

Stiles likes to believe things happen for a reason. Call it destiny or fate or karma, he doesn’t really care. He believes in the idea of it because it makes dealing with the bad parts of life more bearable and the good parts of life feel just that little bit sweeter. So he’d figured that running into Derek twice before meant that he was supposed to help this guy find a job, which, ok sure. He has no problem playing the Good Samaritan when he feels it’s the right thing to do, but this is different. Tonight is different.

Stiles makes friends easily, but he doesn’t click with people like this, not this fast. For as much as he talks and jokes around and acts like a funny asshole, he doesn’t get close to people quickly. Losing a mother as a child and having to shoulder the fallout with a father that was so absolutely and utterly devastated by her death for so long left lasting scars that took a long time to heal, some that are still healing even now.

So when Stiles does connect with people like Scott and then Allison, he keeps them. He keeps them forever. 

He plans on being old and gray and playing Canasta or some shit on his porch with Scott when he’s ninety years old. That’s how long he’s planning on having Scott’s friendship in his life. And Scott’s like only half a friend ever since Allison joined the picture. But whatever. He and Allison are total bros now anyway, so it’s cool. She makes up for the missing half of Scott.

The point is: he’s going to ask Derek out. It’s been a while since the whole “Danny” thing happened. And even longer since the whole “Jackson/ Lydia” thing happened, which, long story for another time. It’s been a while since he dated anyone or even was around anyone he found even remotely attractive and he definitely, definitely finds Derek attractive. Attractive and intelligent. It’s a killer combination as far as Stiles is concerned. One he’s not willing to walk away from no matter how much the idea of getting rejected and being rejected by someone like Derek, no less, will probably traumatize him for the rest of his life.

He’s just going to suck it up and put on a brave face and fucking do this thing.

 

***

 

It’s another two hours and three beers later before Stiles sums up the courage to clear his throat.

They’re halfway through _Captain America_ , his belly full and his body relaxed, and he can feel his eyes starting to slip shut despite the nervous energy thrumming just below his skin. If he’s going to do this he needs to do it now.

He sucks in a long breath and turns to look at Derek. Derek, who is passed out on Scott’s grandma’s couch with his head pillowed on his arm and his T-shirt rucked up his belly. Stiles stares at the exposed treasure trail and the small lines that define his smooth abdomen. It’s sexy and captivating and not even the part that Stiles finds the most disarming, which is Derek’s socks twisted and almost falling off his feet, one hanging limply from the tip of his toes.

“Are you gonna break my heart too?” He asks Derek and the empty room. 

Sighing softly he gets up to turn off the TV. He covers Derek with the afghan lying on the back of the couch after he fixes Derek’s socks and leaves the trash of empty bottles and paper plates to clean up tomorrow. He heads to the guest room with a tired, goofy grin on his face. 

“You are, but I’m going to enjoy it anyway.”

 

***

 

Derek wakes up the next morning to the sounds of voices in another room and a dull headache. His mouth is feels like someone stuffed about two tons of cotton candy down his throat, dry and sticky and disgustingly foul.

He sits up slowly and remembers suddenly where he’s at. Stiles’ place. Or…no. Stiles’ friend’s place. He spares a brief thought to where Boyd is and checks his cell to see six missed calls from Laura and thirteen texts. Well, she can fucking wait. He needs a glass of water and to take a piss and find some aspirin, god please.

The bathroom is easy enough to find as is the aspirin, but there’s no glass, so he has to cup the water in his hands and bring it to his mouth. Most of it dribbles down onto his shirt. It’s a great start to a great morning.

On his way back out he sits down on the couch again to tie up his boots.

"--don’t want milk. I hate milk.” Stiles calls as he comes into the room. “Oh, hey. Are you leaving?”

“I was putting on my shoes,” Derek replies dumbly. Has he mentioned he’s not a morning person? Because he’s not a morning person.

Stiles nods at him like he’s slow. “Yes. I can see that. Do you want some breakfast before you go?”

For an instant Derek can see how earnest Stiles is in the face of such a simple question. Derek can’t quite fathom why. Stiles is possibly the most absurdly genuine person Derek has ever met. He tries to hide it, Derek can see the effort he puts into it constantly. It’s baffling. 

There are reasons that Derek can feel forming, reasons he doesn’t want Stiles to hide. It’s all more than a little jumbled in his head at this hour, and at this point, and for this person he barely knows, but he can feel it like the steady beat of his heart that he wants Stiles to be exactly who he is, always.

“Come on, come eat,” Stiles mumbles, snagging his hand and coaxing him into the kitchen.

Derek goes easily.

There’s a pretty red-head near the stove, whipping batter in a clear bowl. Beside her is a guy with rumpled hair, eyes half lidded as he slowly hands her items from the fridge.

“Hey, it’s couch guy. You know him?”

“Yes, Scott. I mentioned he was staying on the couch last night before you passed out in the guest room, drooling all over yourself,” says Stiles.

Scott’s nose scrunches up. “I don’t drool. And how am I supposed to remember strange men when I’m intoxicated?”

Stiles navigates them both to the kitchen table and offers Derek a seat, hand brushing all over his arm and shoulder and back. “He’s not strange, he’s Derek.”

“Hello, Derek.”

“Uh, hey.”

“This is Scott, my best bud,” Stiles gestures, pulling his hand away from Derek. He tries, he really does, but he feels bereft when Stiles stops touching him. It’s fucked up how fast he’s getting used to it.

“Staying for breakfast?” Scott asks like he feels he has to include Derek. “Lydia’s making Belgian waffles.”

Derek hums nonsensically. He’s fully awake now and he needs to call Laura back to stop the inevitable freak out that’s going to rain down upon him for having not called her back the first eight thousand times. Food, though, sounds amazing to his rumbling stomach and he could use another glass of water or two, but. But…“I should – you know – probably-”

“ _Stay_ ,” presumably Lydia cuts in, her tone demanding and sharp. “I make the best waffles in the entire world.”

She might as well have said, _I eat babies for fun_ , what with the way she’s keenly peering between him and the waffle press. Derek stays cautiously quiet. 

She raises her eyebrows at him, mouth pursed.

Derek forces himself not to recoil. He nods quickly in acquiescence and slumps down into his chair. It’s too early for this shit.

“Also, Lydia’s sorry for being Lydia,” Scott says.

“No I’m not,” she counters flatly.

She doesn’t turn around and glare at him again so Derek says, “Not a problem?”

There’s a crick in his neck from that shitty couch - which is starting to throb - he rubs at it roughly, hoping it’ll help. When it doesn’t he drops his hand back down and groans.

“Sore?” Stiles asks, softly. At the same time as Scott calls out, “Hey Al, Stiles’ boyfriend is staying for breakfast! You want to come out and eat?”

“Mmmrrggrhuuuhh.” 

“Is that a no?”

“MRRRMMMERGGRRRUUH.”

Everyone laughs, but Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ cheeks are tinged pink at the top, the flush skimming the ridges of his ears and fading down. Derek wants to touch that pink skin, see how far down that blush goes. At this hour of the morning and with no caffeine in his system it’s all a bit maddening.

“A little.” He answers Stiles just as quietly and lets his eyes flutter shut when Stiles starts massaging his neck, needing the muscle with his thin, surprisingly nimble fingers.

He hears Scott leave the room, he assumes to go check on this Al person. It’s silent for a while as the sounds of food cooking and coffee brewing occupy the space around them.

“Morning.”

Derek opens his eyes at the new voice to see a tall, shirtless guy walk into the room.

“Coffee ready yet?”

“Almost,” Lydia says easily.

The new guy comes around the table and plops down in the seat closest to Stiles, starts tying his shoelaces.

“You disappeared on me last night.”

Stiles hand stills on Derek’s neck, slowly falling away to settle on the tabletop. Derek clamps his jaw shut on the irritated grunt he wants to let loose.

“Wasn’t really feelin’ it,” Stiles says and starts chewing on his bottom lip.

The guy looks up, searching Stiles face for something – Derek doesn’t know what – and not finding it. “Huh. Well, call me soon and we’ll chill. I miss your goofy face, Stilinski.”

He stands and runs a hand over Stiles’ head, the gesture more of a sweet caress than a playful rub and Derek clenches his teeth, biting back the growl that’s forming low in his throat. _Who the fuck is this guy and why is he touching…people?_

Stiles immediately pushing him back calms Derek in a way that it probably shouldn’t.

“Yeah, yeah. When you have time to be bothered with me,” Stiles says.

The guy sighs. “Don’t say that, ok.”

Stiles doesn’t respond, chewing at his lip like it’s a piece of fucking bubble gum. The room is silent, strained and Derek knows they’re having a conversation about a situation he’s not privy to. 

“Food’s ready,” Lydia eventually cuts in, breaking the tension. “Stiles, set the table. Danny are you staying?”

“Can’t. Have to get to work,” he says, eyes skipping from her to Stiles.

She smiles brightly. “Then get out of my kitchen. You’re in the way.”

Danny snorts. “As you wish. Bye guys.”

He bends down and gives Stiles a brief one-armed hug, doesn’t wait for Stiles to respond before he’s letting go and out the door with a wave. Derek is left feeling weirdly out of place. Not that he didn’t feel that way before, but now he’s seen actual proof that there are all of these things that he doesn’t know about Stiles’ life. All these things he wants to know about, wonderingly enough.

Stiles is up out of his seat and taking plates out of cabinets when Lydia says, “Grab me some orange juice. Hey lovebirds, are you eating with us?”

When no response comes from the other room she shrugs. “Guess not.”

“Can I help?” Derek asks, feeling guilty for not offering sooner. 

“Grab the utensils,” Lydia says flatly, but when they all finally sit down to eat she’s grinning.

 

***

 

Stiles drives him to Laura’s after breakfast. It makes him feel like when his mom would pick him up from the movies when he was twelve, young and stupid and completely helpless. He needs to get a goddamn car soon.

“Still looking for a job?” Stiles asks when they pull into the drive way.

“Why?”

“We have an opening at the store if you still want it.”

“As what?”

“A stock boy,” Stiles falters, making a face.

Derek snorts. “Uh, no.”

Stiles chuckles in return, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “Yeah I get it. Not very glamorous, but it’s money.”

“Thanks anyway,” Derek says, not knowing what else to say and opens the car door.

Stiles opens his mouth, poised like he’s maybe going to ask a question, but his face falls at the last moment. “Sure. Come by if you change your mind.”

Derek nods and grins so he can see the way Stiles eyes light up just the tiniest bit.

 

***

A week later he receives this in the mail:

_Dear Mr. Hale,_

_Thank you for your portfolio and resume. After careful consideration we regret to inform you that we are unable to accept…_

 

***

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Stiles says casually when he comes through the door, but there’s just a hint of delight in his voice.

Derek clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Is there still an opening?”

“Here?” 

“Do you enjoy being difficult?”

Stiles grins evilly. “No and _yes_. So you’re interested?”

“I guess.”

“That’s the enthusiasm I like to see. You’re hired!”

The store is relatively quiet for a Sunday afternoon. Still, when Derek glances around there isn’t a manager to be found anywhere. “Don’t I need to interview with someone first?”

“Nope,” Stiles says cheerfully. “I’m the assistant manager – she told me to hire someone. Can you start tomorrow at four?”

Derek blinks. Well, that was easy. “Yeah, sure.”

“Sweet. Okay, meet me in the back by the employee entrance. I’ll be training you on what to do.”

“So you do it all, huh?” 

“And more,” Stiles whispers, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek puffs out a laugh despite himself. _This guy, what is it about this guy?_ He can’t seem to shake him.

“See you tomorrow,” Stiles calls as he’s leaving.

“Can’t wait,” Derek replies sarcastically.

Stiles rolls his eyes and returns to his duties. 

It’s probably nothing, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but when Derek drives by the front windows of the store as he’s exiting the parking lot he can see Stiles through the glass, pumping his arms and swiveling his hips in a little dance. 

Derek smiles to himself for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek arrives at Joe’s twenty minutes early the next day. He sits in Laura’s car and waits, fiddling with the dials on the radio and attempting to tamper down the scornful thoughts that are running through his head. Thoughts like: _you’re 26 years old, what are you doing here? You have a bachelor’s degree, and you’re gonna be working at a fucking grocery store! What is wrong with you? Get your shit together, Hale! You can do better than this! Maybe. Probably._

He ridicules his choices a half a dozen more times until he’s satisfied with deriding himself for the time being. He scrubs at his face roughly and forces himself to turn his brain off. When he steps out of the car he can see Stiles waiting for him at the back door of the store and he wonders fleetingly if Stiles was watching him this whole time.

“Hey,” Stiles says, waving and smiling like everything is a-okay.

Derek decides it’s probably better for the sake of his new job, his own sanity and whatever tentative friendship he’s begun here with Stiles if he keeps all evidence of his mental cracks and personal failures to himself.

“Hi,” Derek greets with a nod, and wonders if the approximation of a grin he’s trying to show actually manages to appear as more than just a tight grimace.

“Excited to start your training?” Stiles says wryly, his eyes full of playful teasing.

Derek feels his muscles relax at the obvious ease in Stiles disposition. And he wonders if Stiles is always this personable with everyone he meets or if there’s more to it, more to him – than that.

“So excited,” he answers dryly. Stiles laughs and leads him through what appears to be an employee break room and into a smaller office with a desk, a computer, and another smaller desk with an old television on top.

He proceeds to explain while Derek fills out all of the necessary paperwork to get his employment rolling with Joe’s that he also has to watch a few mandatory safety and instructional videos.

“Sign everything I marked after you read over it. I’ll be back in a bit when the videos are over.”

“Sure,” Derek says.

“Have fun.” Stiles winks as he pulls the office door shut behind him.

 

***

 

Two hours into the instructional videos, Pam, the store manager stops by to introduce herself and give him a quick Do’s and Don’ts list. It’s more perfunctory than anything, but it’s a nice distraction regardless. That lasts about fifteen minutes and then it’s on to more instructional videos. By hour five Derek’s so tired and bored of watching bad actors dramatizing what to do in scenarios like _falling on the job_ or _helping an elderly customer in need_ that he’s seriously considering just taking a nap until it’s all over. He must actually zone out at some point because when the lights come back on in the room they’re blinding and Stiles is there standing in front of him with the television turned off.

“And how was your first day?” He sing-songs in a chipper voice, eyes dancing with mirth.

Derek blinks and clears his throat. He huffs out a surly. “Meh.”

“That’s the spirit!” Stiles replies, more and more delighted by Derek’s clipped responses and reactions. It’s not having the desired effect Derek assumed it would, him being gruff. It usually turns people off, which is what he wants because Derek hates people. All people. Almost, all people. He’s not sure if it pisses him off or amuses him that Stiles is so enchanted by his grouchiness. It’s confusing all the way around, really.

“Ready for more training videos tomorrow?”

Derek stills at that, eyebrows rising high. “There’s more?”

“Well..no,” Stiles replies happily. “But I had you going for a second.”

“You dick.”

“Your face was totally worth it.”

Derek glares. He maybe even growls. Just a little. 

“But for real, how was today? Boring as hell?”

“No more videos. Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything huh?” Stiles smile widens, turning into something Derek can only define as devious. “In that case, my buddy’s band is playing at Cowboy Monkey tonight at ten. You should meet me for drinks before the show. Or I may make you watch more videos tomorrow.”

“So this is conditional?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of hesitation that Derek knows Stiles can see before Derek is able to hide the look from him. They walk out to the entrance Derek came into at the beginning of the day, a stuttered beat of silence following them. It’s been a long time since Derek’s gone out bar hopping or drinking with friends. School and then work took up so much of his time that friends fell to the wayside after awhile. He became a homebody for the most part and he didn’t mind it much. People were messy and worth more trouble than anything else. Derek liked his solitude. Sure he was lonely sometimes, but people weren’t better than the loneliness. Derek wonders if Stiles would be worth it. The thought is tempting, but he’s not sure. Without time to really weigh the pros and cons Derek isn’t sure he’s willing to risk it. He’s about to decline before Stiles pipes in, arms moving about and cheeks flushed just at the edges from having worked all day.

“Okay. No, it’s not conditional. We both know I can’t actually enforce that. But I do know you think I’m suuuuper sexy.

Taken off guard Derek sputters “I, what um—”

“I catch you staring at my mouth when you think I might not be looking. My ass too,” Stiles says, that deceptive little grin spread across his mouth again. The tips of his ears are darkening in what Derek is coming to learn means Stiles is nervous or keyed up.

“Lies,” Derek grumbles, trying not to smile.

“It’s cute when you get flustered – makes me feel all tingly inside.”

Derek puffs out a laugh and goes quiet. He just has to make it to the employee parking lot and then he’s free.

“See ya tomorrow.”

Stiles reaches out and encircles his wrist. “Hey, wait. Am I gonna see you tonight?”

He looks so very earnest Derek’s guts twist sharply.

“You really want me to come?”

Stiles rolls his eyes affectionately. “Of course. That’s why I asked, idiot.” 

It’s comical and terrifying how much Derek wants to say both yes and no. They both think he’s an idiot so that’s a clear sign they’ll be good friends at the very least.

“Okay,” Derek clips out.

Stiles looks hopeful. “Okay, you’ll come or…”

“I’ll come.”

“Great! I’ll see you around ten. Dress pretty for me.”

There’s a smile and a little shimmy and Derek realizes he’s probably fucked if making Stiles happy with such a small thing makes him feel more content than he’s been in years

“You’re ridiculous. Why do I talk to you?”

“Because I’m amazing!” He says, his eyes huge and smile wide, all hyper energy. Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles snorts, that same little self-deprecating sound Derek’s heard him make several times now.

Stiles looks down once he thinks Derek isn’t watching him anymore and his smile begins to fade into something slightly strained around the edges; his body tensing just a fraction as if he’s waiting for Derek to disagree with him about said amazing-ness or change his mind and call the whole night off.

He raises a slow hand and rubs it over the top of Stiles bent head, feels the soft strands of his hair under his fingertips.

“I think you might be,” he says softly, then steps back before Stiles can respond. “See you later.”

He takes off for the parking lot and doesn’t look back.

 

***

 

Stiles gets to the bar early and waits. And worries. And flips through a handful of possible scenarios about how the night is going to go with Derek.

1\. He doesn’t show.  
2\. He calls with an excuse about why he can’t show.  
3\. He drops by and then leaves five minutes later.  
4\. He shows up and ignores Stiles  
5\. He shows up and flirts with other people  
6\. He shows up and leaves with other people.

Stiles knows he’s over thinking things, as usual, and that Derek doesn’t come off like the type of person to be a prick to him when he’s been asked out, grumpy demeanor aside, But Stiles can’t help the anxious clench in his stomach or the jitteriness of his limbs. He may be over thinking things, but he’s not exaggerating. He’s literally had dates where all of these things occurred, some dates more than a few of those happened at the same time. So he’s a little gun-shy. It’s not a huge deal. Derek seems just as rusty on this whole dating shebang as he is, maybe more if his edginess is anything to go by. Seriously, anybody getting laid on the regular is not going to be that pent up. 

Stiles tries not to think about Derek not getting laid (a tragedy, to be sure) or getting laid (please god no) or the fact that Derek’s frowns are more arousing than most people’s smiles. That’s probably not healthy or productive, right?

When his friends from the band arrive to starting setting up for the show Stiles decides to order a drink and not look at the time on his phone. He makes a cursory circle around the bar, chatting up Scott and Allison when they show up soon after. He doesn’t check his phone. He orders three more drinks, doesn’t check his phone and goes to the bathroom twice, a nice buzz settled into his veins and warming him all over by the time he sees Derek walk through the door.

The relief that settles over him is a little intense, honestly. He ignores it and focuses on Derek.

He looks so utterly out of his element that the gorgeous jerk manages to pull some kind of magical bar wizardry, spinning his palpable disdain and apprehensiveness into something appearing calm and collected. The leather jacket helps too. Jesus.

Stiles waves him over, trying to stifle some of his enthusiasm even though he knows his cheeks must be flushed red from the alcohol and Derek’s eyes on him.

Derek squeezes through the crowd until he gets to Stiles at the bar. “What’re you drinking? I’ll buy you one,” he says as soon as he’s within hearing distance.

Stiles looks at his mostly empty glass, trying to remember what he’d ordered last. “Amaretto stone sour.”

Derek snorts and heralds the bartender. “Sam Adams, whatever’s on tap and a sour stone thingy for him.”

The bartender, Colin, looks confused for a second until Stiles clarifies, “Just give me the same as him. I like beer too, asshole.”

Derek very visibly is trying not to smile, but a small grin breaks the corners of his mouth

Colin smirks at their display and nods, pulling two bottles from a nearby fridge, uncapping them and setting them down. Derek pays and takes a long swig and then another and then another. When he’s finished he orders two more and finishes the second before he’ll even meet Stiles wide eyes.

Either Derek is a possible raging alcoholic or he hates bars more than Stiles first assumed.

He clears his throat. “So…”

“So…,” Derek echoes.

“You know if this isn’t your scene you could’ve just told me. You didn’t have to come.”

Derek picks up his fresh bottle, toying with the label and then taking a long swig. He’s very purposefully only looking at Stiles, his hands or his drink, like the rest of the bar won’t exist if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I know.”

Stiles scratches the back of his neck, finding he’s also staring at Derek’s hands. To be fair, they’re very nice hands. He knows he’s probably going to regret asking this question, but he can’t ever seem to stop his own curiosity, even when it’s hurtful to him.

“Then why did you?”

Derek shrugs. “Because you asked me.”

Stiles tries to think of a response to _that_ , his breath caught in his throat and his face burning bright red, when the band starts to play. It’s too loud to have a normal conversation after that so they both turn to the stage and watch the show.

Stiles tries his best to pay attention, but it’s all background noise to his thoughts. He doesn’t know how to react to Derek’s words. They’re sweet and kind and at complete opposition with his demeanor. Stiles wants to take them at face value, but he’s had past experiences where that didn’t work out so well either. And while he’s willing to give Derek the benefit of the doubt because Derek isn’t Jackson or Danny or Lydia or his other flings, he can’t exactly detach himself that easily from the idea that Derek’s way too good-looking to be this genuinely sincere.

Shit like that just doesn’t happen in real life, not his in his life anyway.

By the time Stiles has ran through the gambit of worst case scenarios in his head ad nauseam he becomes aware enough to realize that the band is half-way through their set list and that Derek has obviously loosened up enough from his drinks to be languidly pressed up against Stiles side. His left arm is resting on the bar top, his chest lightly pressed into Stiles right arm. It’s too hot in this space, too many bodies and too much body heat radiating through the room to be touching anybody else and have it be comfortable. But fuck comfort if it means Stiles can feel the planes of Derek’s pecs and abs against the skin of his forearm and bicep. It’s nice. He’s imagined Derek has a nice body by the way his clothes lay over his shoulders, arms and hips, but feeling the sinew and hard muscle in reality is very nice indeed.

‘How do you like the band?’ Stiles mouths, brushing the back of his hand against Derek’s hand to get his attention.

Derek’s eyes, hooded from his buzz, slide smoothly to Stiles and then over the length of Stiles; back and up and then back and up again. ‘What?’ He mouths in return.

Stiles feels all of the blood in his face rush southward, his dick going hard at Derek’s heated stare. He shakes himself, his hand brushing Derek’s more purposefully this time. In reply Derek touches the inside of his wrist with his fingertips, trailing them down the palm of his hand and back up again to encircle his wrist for a brief moment. It’s probably more erotic than some of the actual sex Stiles has had in the past, which doesn’t say many good things about his sex life, really.

“Do you like the band?” Stiles leans over to say the words in Derek’s ear.

Derek nods casually, his attention reverting to the stage as his hand and arm move to Stiles back. He’s not sure if Derek’s trying to get around him or get closer to him so he takes the safer option and side-steps in case Derek is actually trying to get back to the bar and away from him.

Derek does move to grab his drink, half-full and sweating profusely from having sat for the last forty minutes without any attention. Stiles watches as the beads of water run down the neck and collect on Derek’s lips as he tips the bottle back to take a swig. He wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand when he’s through, the same hand that was touching Stiles until he stupidly decided to move away and ruin the moment as per usual.

He chances a glance at Derek from the corner of his eye to see the relaxed set of his face has turned into a pinched expression. It’s not overly noticeable except for the sharpness in his eyes that were so soft just a moment ago. Well shit. Now he’s either gotta suck it up and go in for the kill or spend the rest of the night miserable and wondering if Derek doesn’t really like him at all. Seriously, fuck insecurities.

“Oh oops,” Stiles yells over the music, tripping forward into Derek’s chest and reaching to grab his shirt. Derek takes hold of his forearms, pulling him into the circle of his embrace as he looks around for what might have caused Stiles to flail into him like some kind of awkward baby giraffe. 

The answer is: nothing, nothing at all. He made himself fall, but the desired affect was achieved as he situates himself back into Derek’s space and says, “Sorry, slipped on something wet.”

Derek gives him a knowing look, but says nothing. And that little grin rises over the horizon of his face once more so Stiles will call it a victory and happily move on. It doesn’t hurt that Derek’s hand moves to his back once again, drawing soft patterns down his spine and over the slope of his shoulder blades, making Stiles shiver and grow hot all at the same time.

 

***

 

The rest of the night is spent much of the same way, with Stiles and Derek pressed close together in the middle of the crowd, the air thick and musty all around them. They only shift away from each other once the music finally stops and the crowd starts to disperse, some to go home, some to go to another bar and others to try and find a place to sit now that it’s not so crowded.

Stiles leads Derek up to the stage to introduce him to the band and Scott. The band stops by for a quick hello and a round of drinks on the house, thanks to the owner, and then they’re back to loading their instruments and gear off stage and into their vehicles.

Stiles thinks about driving home for a few minutes and then decides with that last round he’s probably a bit too tipsy to get behind the wheel. He texts Scott about bumming a ride home for him and Derek. When he gets the affirmative he orders two more shots for them both, because why not?

“Did you have a fucking awesome time?” Stiles asks, wiping at his stinging lips and feeling the burn of the tequila slide down his throat.

He might be a little more than tipsy now. Yeah.

“Fucking awesome. Time.” Derek echoes brightly, throwing his arm up in a rock-and-roll gesture. Stiles’s laughs, wondering if he’s as drunk as Derek is and realizing that the length of time he’s been laughing at something that wasn’t really all that funny is probably a good indication that, yep, he’s pretty wasted.

It feels good though. It’s been longer than he can remember since the last time he just let himself go – no worries about tomorrow, or consequences or wondering what people will think of him and how he might be judged. Always keeping himself so in check that his head and shoulders ache from the tension of it. And by the look of true ease on Derek’s stupid, incredible face he probably feels the same.

“I should call. Call. I’ll call…the thing. What’s it called? With the wheels and doors, you know? The yellow thing? Picks me up?” Derek asks while chuckling.

“A cab?” Stiles snorts.

“YES! THAT! Thank you. You’re so helpful.”

Stiles bows. “I do what I can. But, don’t be stupid. We’ll give you a ride. Come on. Scott only had one beer – he’s good to drive.”

Derek seems to have sobered from his little laughing/coughing fit and exhales a long breath, then shrug-nods, shrods?

They walk out and around the building to where Scott’s parked.

“A van?” Derek tries to smirk, but ends up making a goofy constipated face instead. Stiles finds it hilarious.

“Awesome, right! He told me he got it from some Cheech and Chong looking dudes for 800 bucks.”

“Hippies. Hip hippies. Hippity hip hip hip hippy. Hippy seas.”

“Man, you sound high.”

“Nope. M’drunk,” Derek states and manages to sound proudly smug about it. Stiles can’t even fault him, the handsome bastard.

Scott arrives with Allison in tow and they all climb inside the van, Stiles and Derek taking the back seat. The soft hum of the radio and Scott’s ghetto engine are the only sounds around them as they travel down the road. Stiles glances to Derek who seems to be caught in his own thoughts for the moment.

Stiles lets the first ten miles role by silently as he thinks back to when they were in the bar and how the taste of alcohol felt burning down his throat compared to the warm skin of Derek’s arm bumping into his and the smell of his cologne. Or it could’ve been his fabric softener or possibly his sweat and some chick’s cherry lipbalm. Whatever it was it smelled good.

“Hey! What’s wrong?” Derek whispers, poking at his face.

“Nothing,” Stiles beams. “Everything’s great. Except you should smile more. Definitely more smiles. For youuu.”

Stiles leans forward and starts to push the corners of Derek’s mouth upward.

Derek laughs and bats his hands away. 

“So are you guys dating now or what?” Scott shouts from the front of the van. He sounds bemused and a little teasing.

“No,” Allison cuts in, giving her boyfriend a discerning glare. “They’re just friends hanging out, doing friend stuff. Right, Stiles?”

“But wasn’t that the problem with Danny? They weren’t on the same page about stuff.”

Derek’s smile has faded into wide, deer-caught-in-headlights eyes, his mouth open like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what that would be.

Stiles covers his lips with his forefinger and smiles, feeling recklessly uninhibited. Thank you, alcohol.

“Shhh. It’s okay. You’re going to be.”

“Going to be what?” Derek whispers.

“My boyfriend.”

Derek’s eyebrow rise at that, but his lips part on a grin. “I am?”

“Yup. I know this. I’m pretty sure I might be psycho. I mean psychic. Pyschic.”

“Why are we whispering?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles starts laughing again.

Derek laughs too, setting his head against the head rest and chuckling until he starts to fall asleep. Stiles lets him go, figures he can wake him when they get to his place. He’s rewarded with Derek’s head slipping onto his shoulder at some point, his warm breaths puffing over Stiles pulse point until he’s hard in his jeans and flushed to the tips of his ears again.

When they pull up into Derek’s sister driveway Stiles rubs gently at Derek’s arm until he wakes up and starts rubbing at his eyes.

“You’re home.”

“What?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Again.”

“Again,” Stiles agrees cheerfully. “Your drunken narcolepsy is cute.”

Derek blinks at the brightness of the overhead light and wipes at his wet cheek and mouth.

“I drooled on you. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Stiles smiles and rubs his thumb over Derek’s cheekbone and up past his temple. Derek leans into it briefly before Stiles moves away to let him slide out of the seat.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says to Scott with a wave and a small smile to Stiles.

“No problem”, Scott calls from the driver’s seat. “Remember to hydrate before bed. Tylenol in the morning and a greasy breakfast before operating heavy machinery.” 

“I won’t tell anyone if you’re a little late tomorrow.”

Derek slants him an impassive look. “Bye Stiles. Thanks for tonight.”

“All my pleasure, trust me.”

“Get in the car, dude. I have to pee.”

“Oh my god, give them a minute,” Allison sighs, her tone fondly exasperated. Which is her default setting, honestly.

“Later,” Stiles mouths, and sports a dorky little wave for good measure.

Derek rolls his eyes, grins and turns when the van starts to back out of the driveway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realize this update took forever and I apologize. The majority of this fic is written and will be completed and posted, but it might take a while. So be aware of that. And if you want to wait until it's finished to read it I totally dig that. WIP can be a pain to wait around for so no hard feelings on my part. :)


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